I Dream Of Things That Never Will Be
by Kitsune no Tora
Summary: Kink Meme deanon. "If you love me only in my dreams, let me be asleep forever." We thought we were immortal. Now we are faced with a reality we've been trying to avoid for centuries—that nothing is permanent, not even nations. Everything crumbles to dust. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** De-anoning another Hetalia kink meme fill I've been working on for far too long. XD (Since September 2010, eeek!) So I hope you enjoy. I'm doing something a bit different with how I'm posting this on here than I did on the meme (which was mass-post everything as I finished a decent amount), so bear with me. Some chapters will be horribly short (like this one), and others will be longer. That's the point.

All feedback, especially critique, is greatly appreciated. Also, this isn't porn, sorry. And if you couldn't pull it from the summary, here's your warning for character death.

**I Dream Of Things That Never Will Be**

.~.~.~.~.

_The best thing about dreams is that fleeting moment, when you are between asleep and awake, when you don't know the difference between reality and fantasy, when for just that one moment you feel with your entire soul that the dream is reality, and it really happened. _-Unknown

.~.~.~.~.

The world outside the window was on fire, red and orange and gold reflecting brightly against the glass. The leaves on the trees, already saturated with color from the chilling wind, were dyed even more magnificently in the sunset—the soft light casting sharp shadows around corners of the room. South Italy sat on the side of the bed Spain should have been occupying, watching the world flare brightly and slowly dim to darkness.

Time passed, and South Italy did not move from his spot where Spain should have been, bare feet curling into the chilled sheets—unnaturally so, it seemed, without Spain to warm them—nearly naked save for a pair of boxers, shivering slightly as the first stars peeked out through the inferno.

The stars grew more numerous and the world bled color until it had dimmed to a dull slate, and South Italy did not move.

If the world was right, Spain would have long ago burst into the room, laughing and bright with life, annoying him for a while before settling down and curling up on the bed, snoring softly, twining his limbs with his own.

But the world was not right, and Spain was not there. And South Italy did not move even as the moon began to dominate the sky, except for the occasional shiver from the growing cold. Bottles littered the floor, some broken, some half empty and slowly dripping into the soft carpet. A lamp was knocked over, and his clothes and belongings were in a crumpled mess scattered around the room.

Spain was never again going to occupy this side of the bed, his breath softly ghosting over Italy's skin, warmth seeping into the sheets and into him.

Spain was dead. He was never coming back. South Italy had seen it with his own eyes, seen his goofy (stupid, dimwitted, beautiful) face slide into nothingness, shining dust in the wind.

He fell asleep restlessly that night, on Spain's side of the bed, clutching to the sheets like a lifeline and shivering in the cold.

The next morning, when the world was once again bathed in gold, North Italy crept into his brother's room.

South Italy would not wake up.

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	2. Chapter 2

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"Roma…" South Italy stirred slightly, clenching his eyes tighter shut.

"Romano…"

Dammit, who was calling for him at this hour? Granted, he had no idea what time it was, but he wanted to sleep so it was early enough!

"Romano! Wake up!" **_THUMP!_**

"GAH!" He jolted awake, thrust out of dreamland when a gigantic weight suddenly deposited itself around his waist, knocking the wind right out of him.

"Romano! Thank goodness you're awake! You were sleeping like the dead, it took me forever to wake you, but you were making sad sounds and it sounded like you were having a nightmare so I couldn't just let you sleep…"

…Wait. He knew that voice. But it couldn't be…

South Italy looked down to meet bright green eyes that all rational parts of his mind said he would never see again.

"S-Spain?" Surely this was an illusion, something made up by his sleep deprived mind. He was hallucinating…wasn't he?

He stared at Spain for a moment before blinking and shaking his head, but those green eyes only slid shut and opened again, curious and worried.

"Yes?" Spain answered, cocking his head to the side slightly like he always did when he was confused about something. The familiarity tore at his heart. It couldn't be, but…

It was. Antonio was alive.

"Are you okay? Usually you're yelling at me and telling me to get off by now…not that I mind, I like holding you, but…" He squeezed his arms tighter around South Italy's waist for emphasis, expression growing more concerned.

Despite himself, tears welled up in South Italy's eyes, blurring his vision and making his throat constrict as his heart leapt up into it.

He was alive. It was too good to be true.

"Wah! Don't cry! Was the dream really that scary? It's okay! Tell me about it, Boss Spain will make it better!"

"Shhhh-Shut up, i-idiot…" South Italy choked out through the tears, for once accepting Spain's smothering.

He had never thought he would miss Spain's touch this much.

_.~.~.~.~._


	3. Chapter 3

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"Ve, _fratello_…" North Italy sniffed loudly, fat tears rolling off his cheeks, staining Germany's uniform as he clung desperately to him. "Germany, what's wrong with my brother? Why won't he wake up?"

"I don't know," Germany replied honestly, voice stiff but still soft, "we'll find out when the doctors come back. Be patient, Italy." He felt Italy nod, and sighed as he felt him rub his nose into his sleeve again, a grimace forming on his features. Germany wanted to go and change his jacket, into one that was less wet with tears and snot, but Italy seemed to have claimed his right arm as his own and his sleeve as a handkerchief. He didn't think he'd be getting either back soon, so he resigned himself to his fate: as a snot-rag/pillow to a sobbing Italian in a stiff plastic chair in a hospital. He didn't have the heart to pry him off, anyway.

Early that morning, just barely after the sun had risen, he had been surprised (not that he hadn't already been up for a while) with a phone call from North Italy, sobbing incoherently into the mouthpiece. Once he had gotten over the initial shock of _Italy_ _being up at the crack of dawn_ without pasta, gelato, or retreating being involved, he had just barely caught a vague idea of what he was blabbering about, mostly from piecing together "brother" and "sleeping," the only two words he was able to pick out of his wailing. It was only when he got to Italy's house that he found out the severity of what was going on.

He arrived, after creeping carefully through shards of glass and broken decorations littering the floor all through the house, to a sobbing Veneziano clinging to an ice-cold and just barely breathing Romano. He'd tried to rouse him, but even he could not wake Lovino up. They had tried everything they could think of—warming him up with blankets, shaking him (well, Italy did that part, mostly), some water, even pulling on his curl. Nothing. Eventually they had run out of ideas, and had to resort to calling the Italy's boss to have him transported to the hospital.

Now, they were waiting for word on what was going on, Italy clinging to him like a life raft. And while he wasn't incredibly fond of the nation, deep down, Germany hoped everything was alright.

They couldn't afford to lose another nation, not so soon. The world wouldn't be able to take the strain.

Looking down at Veneziano, Germany slightly amended that thought. The world, especially Veneziano, wouldn't be able to take the strain. And Veneziano was the one he was worried about the most.

.~.~.~.~.


	4. Chapter 4

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He was losing his mind. South Italy was convinced of this fact. There was no way this was real.

After he had calmed down, Spain had led him downstairs to a small breakfast of magdalenas, bolos, and fresh coffee. South Italy had watched him like a hawk, confident that any second now, Spain was going to disappear and he was going to regain his sanity.

He was tempted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming, especially when Spain leaned over to peck him on the cheek when he handed him his cup of coffee.

He blushed dark red and swatted Spain for his trouble with a few choice words thrown in, of course, but decided that pinching himself wasn't a good idea.

Because if this was a dream, he never wanted it to end. A world without Spain didn't feel right at all.

.~.~.~.~.


	5. Chapter 5

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After what seemed like endless hours in the waiting room, the doctor finally came. He looked to be a kind man—getting on in years, to be sure, with his white hair topping a wrinkled face and stained and leathery fingers gripping the clipboard. But his eyes were bright—a clear blue, glinting with intelligence and wisdom, softening around the crinkled edges of his crow's feet. Germany could tell he was a man who has seen many die despite his best work, but still took great pride and solace in the ones who kept fighting to survive.

North Italy was the first to speak. He jumped up so suddenly he almost made Germany topple over, having been holding onto him so desperately before. "How is he? Is my brother okay?"

The doctor answered the question without even needing to say anything; the grimly confused lines of his mouth gave it away. Germany could practically feel North Italy's heart plummeting to his feet, and felt his own drop heavily into his stomach.

"He's stable, and doing pretty well, all things considered. There's no immediate danger—at the very least, he's holding his own just fine at the moment."

Veneziano visibly relaxed, relief flooding his stature before he stood up straight again. "Do you know what's wrong then?"

The doctor frowned, looking dissatisfied. "We don't have any confirmation on the cause or nature of it as of yet, but I suppose the simplest explanation is that he's in a coma."

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	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: Happy New Year!

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"_Idiota!_ What the fuck are you doing? Dammit, the ones I told you to pick are over there!" South Italy shouted from his spot on his back porch, scowling darkly when Spain's head popped out of the garden, smiling brightly.

"But Romanoooo! These ones are so big and juicy, I had to pick them! I'll pick both, okay?" A cloud passed by overhead, casting Spain momentarily into shadow before he ducked back down and out of sight behind the leafy tomato stalks. South Italy grumbled, crossing his arms and legs with a pout.

The wind ruffled his hair, the light late summer breeze feeling pleasant against the heat of the sun beating down on him. It was a nice day, South Italy thought, even if it seemed weird. He couldn't place why, and decided it wasn't worth the effort. He didn't mind.

And no, it wasn't because the heat had caused Spain to shed his shirt while he worked, dammit. Definitely not.

South Italy let his mind wander, impassively watching the wind ruffle the foliage and listening to Spain hum as he rustled through the garden, occasionally making pleased sounds whenever he found something to his liking. Fluffy dark shadows lazily floated across the greenery as the clouds went by over the sun, and South Italy inhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

"Romano!"

"Gah!" South Italy jumped in his seat, startled by Spain suddenly shouting in his ear. He smacked him. "Bastard, don't fucking sneak up on me like that! What the hell are you trying to do, scare me to death?"

"Ah, sorry—oof!" he gasped when South Italy smacked him hard in the chest, holding something over his head, "I just wanted to show you this!"

South Italy stopped, scowling angrily up at him, "What, then? It had better not be another—" he was cut off when Spain thrust the object into his face, forcing him to jolt backwards both in surprise and to see the darn thing—he didn't know anyone who was capable of properly seeing things less than two centimeters away from their face.

It was a tomato, bright red and ripe. Except it had a face. Two dark indents dimpled it right over a strange outgrowth that looked almost exactly like a nose (he shivered when he realized it reminded him of Russia's), over a long brown line from being pressed against a vine curled into what appeared to be a smile.

"Isn't it cute? We should keep it!" Spain said excitedly, bringing the tomato back up to his eye level. "What should we name it?"

South Italy rolled his eyes. "Idiot, it's just going to rot." Plus, it was really creepy. He shivered. The nose was too big.

Spain visibly deflated, expression drooping. "But Romano, eating it would be weird! It'd be staring at us…the whole time…" Spain kept the tomato at his eye level, and…was he having a staring contest with it?

South Italy resisted the urge to facepalm. "…Fine, if you want to keep it, we can. But I am _not _going to be the one to throw it out when it rots." And no, he did not give in so easily because the face Spain was making at the tomato was endearing.

"Thank you!" South Italy squawked indignantly when Spain enveloped him in a big hug, face reddening. "Oooh, you two match!"

South Italy cursed at him, struggling until he gave up and settled in Spain's chuckling embrace. The tomato, affectionately named Diego Marcelo Estavan Vincenzo Amadis Vargas-Carriedo (they couldn't decide on a name), ended up on the window sill, smiling cheerily out into the garden.

And South Italy was the happiest he had ever felt, in an endless summer of dreams come true.

.~.~.~.~.


	7. Chapter 7

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Germany started a bit; brought out of the light doze he had slipped into from sitting with Italy in the waiting room for what was now quite a few hours. He quickly pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, glancing down to make sure he hadn't woken Italy up, who had fallen asleep against his shoulder. He had not.

"Hello?" he answered quietly, pinning the phone between his shoulder and ear so he could rub the weariness out of his eyes.

"Please tell me you know what's going on," Austria said without preamble, voice tense and worried. "Italy left me a rather long and panicked voicemail this morning. You two are in the hospital right now?"

"Yes, we're still in the waiting room. And no, not really. The doctor came by not that long ago, but he could not tell us much of anything… just that… well, he's sort of in a coma," Germany said awkwardly, unsure of how to tell him the news. He was still digesting it himself.

Germany heard rustling coming from the other end. "I see. I am not surprised that they could not tell you anything. I do not believe they will be able to ascertain a reason why—we do not fall ill for the same reasons humans do, you know."

Germany hummed quietly in agreement. "What do you think, then?"

Austria did not answer right away, instead growing silent—Germany was tempted to ask if he was still there when he heard more rustling and the soft sound of voices speaking lowly in the background. One sounded female, so he assumed he was telling Hungary what he had just learned.

"I do not know, and I will not pretend to know why South Italy has fallen ill," he finally said, Hungary's voice in the background fading away, "but I certainly pray that this does not end up like Spain. The symptoms are not the same, but…sometimes, the death of a nation can be…contagious, so to speak, and South Italy was rather close to him." Germany nodded, sighing into the phone.

"I hope so too. How is Gilbert?"

Austria made an exasperated noise, but his tone was tender. "He is the same as he was before you left. I haven't told him; I didn't think it would be beneficial at this point in time. Not with how he's been recently…"

"Will you tell him?"

Austria paused, sighing softly. "Yes. I'll be down there tomorrow with Hungary, so I'll have no choice. We'll see if we can figure out exactly what is ailing South Italy, and we can't leave Prussia in the dark for very long. We can probably count on Italy having called France already, and if France knows Prussia will know sooner rather than later. I'm sure he would throw a fit if he found out we were keeping something like this from him."

"Good," Germany responded, pausing when Italy shifted in his sleep against him. He glanced up, seeing the doctor from before approaching them. "The doctor is coming. I'll have to call you back."

.~.~.~.~.


	8. Chapter 8

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There is a hill by Spain's house—a mound of land stretching high into the sky, a beautiful green and dotted with color in the summertime. One could see for miles, when standing on the top of that hill. At the top, there is a bench made of a log—long and worn flat and smooth from use, loyally resting next to a small fire pit lined with mud bricks, indented with fingerprints.

Whenever South Italy sees this hill, he remembers being a child under Spain's care and staring out from the top into the distance, imagining that if he looked hard enough, he could see Spain, no matter where in the world he was. He remembers nights before the fire, looking up at the stars, tracing patterns through the swath of the Milky Way with their fingers, Spain warm at his side. No matter the time of year, it was never too cold on that hill when Spain was there.

Now, though, the flowers have long withered away from the growing chill, the grass dulled and spotted with brown rather than bright pinks, purples, blues and yellows. The trees have stolen the color from them, Spain once told him when he was too little to know better, but they'll give it back when the leaves fall and winter washes the color back into the ground.

South Italy now found himself at the bottom of this hill, eyes following the random lines of browned grass to the top. It was an ungodly hour, he was sure—the sun had not yet risen, but it was not completely dark, the stars just beginning to dim in the warm glow of the sunrise. He shivered.

Wrapping the blanket he had taken with him from the bed once he woke up to find Spain missing more tightly around himself—if it got dirty he was going to make Spain wash it, this was all his fault anyway, dammit, and it was _cold_—he trudged up the hill, grumbling obscenities under his breath all the way. When he reached the top he found Spain standing there like he thought he would, gazing off into the direction of the sunrise, a neutral, almost blank look on his face. He didn't acknowledge South Italy when he stood next to him, and this, along with his expression, perturbed him.

Spain never looked _neutral_. He was always expressing some sort of emotion; at the very least, his default expression seemed to be "smiling." He wasn't smiling, but he didn't seem sad.

"Spain?"

Spain didn't respond, only leaned back onto his heels and then forward, stuffing his hands into his pockets as his shoulders shook with what appeared to be a shiver. It suddenly occurred to South Italy that Spain wasn't wearing a jacket.

"What the hell are you—"

"Do you like to watch the sun rise, Romano?"

"I—what?" South Italy interrupted himself, blinking in confusion.

"I used to watch them all the time," Spain continued, staring off into the distance. "It was a habit of sorts. Before every fight, I'd watch the sun rise over the battlefield. Every morning at sea, I'd watch the sun rise. Have you ever seen it over the ocean, Romano? When there's not a speck of land in sight? You probably have, but anyway, it's gorgeous. One of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Every morning in the New World, when it was new, anyway, I'd watch it too." He glanced back at South Italy, and that unsettling neutral expression slipped into something wistful, the corners of his lips quirking up just slightly. "I'd watch it and wonder if it was the same one you had seen, too."

South Italy didn't say anything, only bit his lip and pinked faintly, watching Spain as he turned back to the sun, which was finally peeking over the horizon; gold sweeping over the landscape like a painter's brush as it lit the world once again. "There's something about the sunrise that feels...empowering, in a way. It gives hope. Because no matter what, the sun will rise. There will be another day." Spain shivered again, and South Italy found himself stepping closer to him, wrapping the blanket around them both. He gasped slightly when they touched—Spain was cold as ice. He scowled.

"You idiot, what the hell are you going on about? The cold has gone to your head. Christ, you're freezing!" He looked away when Spain smiled brightly down at him, grumbling under his breath when he felt his chest rumble with laughter.

"Sorry, did I worry you? I didn't mean to. I just knew I had to come out and watch the sun rise, one last time..."

South Italy froze in the middle of tugging the blanket more securely around Spain's shoulders. "...W-What?"

"It's sort of fitting, really, a sunrise...start of a new day, a new beginning..." Spain rambled on, and South Italy looked up, saw the sunlight rise up to light up his face, saw tired, darkened, sunken and bruised eyes, gaunt cheeks, and sharpened cheekbones. He wrapped his arms tighter around him, felt the jagged lines of ribs, vertebrae, and the sharp jut of his pelvis digging into his stomach.

Spain looked...frail. Weary. _Old_.

"Y-You're joking, you have to be joking, this isn't funny Spain! You bastard, you had better be fucking joking you can't—"

"My people, they're fighting…I can hear them, I can feel them...their anger, their pain, their suffering...I can hear their shouts and their prayers, the cocking of every gun...I can feel the thrum of every heartbeat, the stomp of every boot...they're hurting, Romano..." Spain went on, pulling him closer to his chest, burying his face into his hair, and South Italy clung desperately to him, tugged at his clothes, tried to pull him to himself and keep him there.

He knew Spain had been suffering, seen the pain he was going through with his own eyes; he knew that it was bad, sometimes he couldn't even get out of bed, but... he couldn't be leaving, he had been better recently! "You're lying. This is nothing. You've been through worse, just as bad, it'll blow over. You can't...you can't...!" he choked slightly, not able to continue. He noticed his hands were shaking, gripping too tightly onto the blanket where it was on Spain's shoulders. He tried to look up again, but Spain had him firmly in place, trapped in his cold cold arms. They used to be so warm.

His throat closed and he gasped for breath, eyes filling with tears, burying his face into Spain's collarbones. He fisted his hands in his shirt, pulling on it, trying to shake him, knock some sense into him, keep him close.

"Italy..." Spain soothed, running a hand down his back, pressing soft lines down his shoulders and spine. He lifted his chin off of his head, and South Italy felt him press his lips lightly to his hair. "I'm sorry. It looks like I'll have to leave you too. I hope you can forgive me."

Spain pulled away from him, pushing South Italy away while he stepped back, taking the blanket with him—South Italy so shocked by the sudden shove that he lost grip on him, eyes wide and stunned. What happened next was inexpressible—it felt like South Italy's insides were rumbling; shaking like an earthquake, up through the ground and into him, even though the world stayed stationary. The land beneath him—Spain, he could always feel him, his presence, a calming aura of _home and safety_—seemed to swell with tension, with anger, with chaos and loss, remembering centuries of blood and sweat and tears and those forgotten and those cherished for everything he'd ever stood for...

Spain was standing in front of him, smiling brightly, sun lighting up his face. And then he disappeared, the feeling dropping like a lead weight in his stomach, that smiling face all glittering dust in the wind, gold reflecting gold, the remnants of a history come and gone, a passion come to a close. For the first time in his life, Romano experienced true silence, the absence of millions of buzzing voices, thrumming to the same tune. For a short moment, he could feel nothing, no reaching strength, nothing to pull it all together, to meld the land below him into something solid.

And then he heard birds, singing their morning song. The deafening silence slowly dissipated, and everything hummed back to life again, and the world continued moving.

Romano screamed, the birds squawked loudly and fluttered off in a frenzied beat of wings, and somewhere in the world a radio buzzed to life, static clinging to every word. _"And today... UN troops...trying to keep order...King...Prime Minister...shot...-tary and financial buildings bombed by unknown terrorist groups...-ead, unknown wounded...roads jammed...refugees...descended into chaos, compounded by...recent economic collapse..."_

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	9. Chapter 9

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He looked so peaceful, North Italy thought, lying in the hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines and wrapped in fluffy white blankets. South Italy wasn't frowning, lips pulled into a neutral, relaxed position, still a little pale from the cold but close to looking normal. He wasn't glaring at anyone, his eyes closed, red-brown lashes pressed to pale cheeks. His eyebrows weren't furrowed, the muscles in his face all relaxed, lines smoothed from his face.

He didn't like it. All he could think about as he sat beside his other half's beside and held his hand was the wrongness of it all. How cold and limp his hand was in his grip, how pallid his skin was, how dark the circles were under his eyes. How he wasn't glaring or shouting, wasn't being rude, wasn't doing _anything_.

He only half listened as Germany rattled off what the doctors had told them to Austria and Hungary, his back turned to the three of them as he watched South Italy's face, rubbing circles into the back of his brother's hand with his thumb. None of it really made much sense to him—all big words that he couldn't even properly say.

At least Austria and Hungary were here now. They were so much older—maybe they would know what to do. He'd overheard Germany talking on the phone with Big Brother France earlier as well, so hopefully he'd come and visit too. They all knew so much...he only hoped it would be enough.

He jumped a little when someone placed a warm hand on his shoulder, quickly wiping his face before looking up to see Hungary smiling down at him. He smiled back, ignoring the tired lines on her face, the heaviness of her touch. He glanced back and saw Austria nod slowly at him, acknowledging him before his attention refocused on Germany, the two of them speaking too quietly for him to hear properly.

He thanked his lucky stars for having friends who were willing to come despite struggling so much on their own. He was truly blessed.

The heart monitor kept on beeping, and his brother kept on sleeping, ice cold in a frigidly sterile room. Hungary pulled up a chair next to him, sitting down with a heavy sigh. She looked tired, and he told her so. "You've had a long trip, you should rest."

She laughed lightly, even though her expression remained somber. "No, I'm fine. You look tired, yourself. Although I guess everyone does these days..." she trailed off, gaze moving from him to South Italy, green eyes examining him intently. "Has he given any signs of waking since you found him yesterday?"

North Italy shook his head and bit his lip as they lapsed into a heavy but comfortable silence, lost in their own thoughts. He continued rubbing soft circles into the back of his brother's hand with his thumb, and eventually Hungary reached out, clasping her long fingers around his other hand and squeezing lightly. He squeezed back, and squeezed his brother's hand as well.

He did not squeeze back.

.~.~.~.~.


	10. Chapter 10

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_Some people, they sleep twice. Once for those who are gone, and once for themselves. They dream thickly, dreaming double—waking from one dream into another one. They walk these dream streets, a mess of highways containing their hopes and desires, calling out names, lost in a cacophony of secrets. Searching for the one who can bring them home._

.~.~.~.~.

South Italy awoke to the sound of crying and a low ringing that lingered in his ears. He inhaled sharply, only to have it catch in his throat, clogged up with tears and snot.

It took him a second to realize that it was he who was crying, and half that to remember why.

_Spain…_

He jerked up with a half-choked gasp, his eyes snapping open when he found he couldn't move. Something was holding him down by the shoulders, keeping him pinned to the bed. He thrashed and convulsed, trying to sit up, trying to reach out _grab him quick before he left him, not again...!_

"Romano!" He froze instantly; a shout catching in his throat and making him choke as the voice registered, arms still reaching out into thin air.

Spain, heavy and warm against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Breathing heavily next to his ear. Breathing, in and out. Alive.

"S-Spain…?" he croaked, heart jumping to lump in his throat along with his tears. He instinctively clung to him, tightly, burying his face into his shoulder. He felt it when relief washed over Spain, the muscles in his arms and back relaxing around him so quick he almost let all his weight fall onto him, before grasping him tightly again. Warm, warm, he was so _warm_…

"Shh, I've got you...it was just a bad dream..." Spain said softly, running a comforting hand through his hair, pressing light tender kisses on his cheeks, nose, and forehead as he shook with the remnants of the adrenaline, fear, anguish—

But Spain was _here_. He was warm, breathing, and alive. And, wrapped safely in his strong arms, South Italy could believe that the world without his stupid bastard Spain really was just a nightmare. This was real—his warmth, his strength, his scent. So perfect, it had to be true. He would never let him go, not ever again. It had to be true, it had to be true.

There was no world without him.

"It's okay, Romano, I promise, I'll never leave you…"

.~.~.~.~.


	11. Chapter 11

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When France stepped out of the taxi—a luxury these days with petrol as it was, Germany was surprised to see it—and greeted him warmly it took all the well-polished restraint Germany had to keep from staring. He expected France to look a little worse for wear, probably more than the others due to the sheer influx of refugees he was handling from Spain and Portugal, but…somehow, it looked worse on him than it did the rest of them. France always took great pride in his looks and took good care of himself so it was quite a shock to see him so haggard—his hair just that much duller, the lines more pronounced on his face, his clothing a little rumpled, his posture slouched and limp. He looked tired, worn…older. He supposed they all did.

"How are you fairing, Germany?" France asked him affectionately, planting a quick kiss on both of his cheeks and grinning at him when Germany flushed darkly. He didn't think he'd ever get used to that, but took comfort in the fact that France's drawn appearance didn't seem to be affecting his personality in any way.

"As well as could be expected." He paused when France moved closer to him than was strictly necessary, and cleared his throat while he glanced back into the taxi. "Where's England? Didn't you say he was going to accompany you?"

France's expression soured immediately into a strained smile, although he didn't move away, sticking close to him even as they began to walk into the warm lobby of the hotel they would be staying in. Their gloved hands brushed against each other. "He is being his stubborn self and refused to come." France frowned darkly, shaking his head with a sigh. "He's still at the front in Spain. I don't know why, but he's determined to find Portugal. For some reason he's convinced he's still alive, or at the very least, that he can find some trace of him…" Germany glanced over at France as he pressed the elevator button to go to the room he had already arranged for him, a grim look on his face. "It is a fool's errand. I do not see how he could still be alive, if Spain is…" France cleared his throat, and Germany saw a flash ofsomething cross over his expression, but it was gone as soon as he had noticed it, his features settling somewhere between irritated and morose. "Regardless, I suppose I am envious of his conviction. And with the meeting coming up, he'll have to take a break to attend anyway."

"Speaking of the meeting, I wanted to discuss that with you."

"Oh?" France finally looked over to him, and their eyes met for a moment, blue on blue. France's eyes were still so bright, and despite everything that was happening, Germany could take comfort in that. They were still full of life, and he could only hope that would never change for either of them.

Or for any other nation, for that matter.

.~.~.~.~.


	12. Chapter 12

.~.~.~.~.

The world outside the window was bathed in gold, dancing off dewdrops like morning stars. Spain and South Italy were curled up together in bed, tangled in cream-colored sheets, South Italy's nose buried between Spain's shoulder blades.

Sunbeams glinted through the glass, filtering through dust motes and a part in the curtains, and when it finally landed on Spain's face he shifted with a yawn and a groan, eyelids fluttering before opening with a squint. South Italy shifted with him, closer, the hand he had wrapped in his night shirt clenching tighter. Spain sighed, attempting to roll over, only to get halfway on his back and tangled up in his shirt. He chuckled softly, reaching around to gently pull South Italy's fingers away.

"No," South Italy mumbled sleepily, reflexively tightening his fingers around Spain's. Spain smiled, turning completely over this time, curling around him.

"No what?" he asked softly, playing with South Italy's fingers, making them relax again.

"Don't go." Gold-brown eyes peeked open, sleep-glazed slivers against brown eyelashes, dark against his skin. Spain smiled, softly, an unspoken promise.

I won't.

Romano hid his contentment in the pillowcases, breathing in deeply before exhaling slowly, savoring every drop.

Not if you don't want me to.

.~.~.~.~.


	13. Chapter 13

.~.~.~.~.

"When was the last time you ate?" Hungary asked, strained, watching North Italy as he fussed about South Italy's bed, tucking in and pulling out the covers from around him.

She knew it was just nervous energy—Veneziano never did well with sitting still and waiting, but he'd been fretting over the exact position of South Italy's blankets for the past hour or so now and it was getting to be ridiculous. She needed to find a way to get him out of the room at the very least, or else she'd go insane just watching him.

North Italy stopped, staring at the ceiling and tilting his head in thought. "This morning! I had breakfast with Germany before he went to do something so he'd be ready to meet France…" He pulled his phone out, surprise falling over his face. "Wah, when did it get so late? It's already past lunch-time…"

Hungary smiled. "I'm going to get something to eat, would you like to join me?"

Italy glanced between his brother and Hungary, deciding for a moment before meeting Hungary's gaze. "Do you think they'll have pasta?"

.~.~.~.~.


	14. Chapter 14

.~.~.~.~.

The beating of wings. The crunch of leaves underfoot. A blanket, flecked with mud, folded up and set off to the side. A piece of slate buried halfway into the ground, unmarked and shining, the only indicator that something important had happened there…

South Italy's hands ached so much he could hardly move them, his palms and fingertips dotted with blisters and smeared with dirt from digging—

"Ah! Romano! Watch what you're doing!" South Italy jumped slightly, jolting again when Spain grabbed him by the hand, pulling it and him along with it to the sink. The knife he had been holding clattered to the countertop, and _oh_, that was why.

Red blood was gushing down his finger, and he stared at it dumbly even as Spain grabbed a towel and pressed it hard into the long gash. He'd sliced his finger clean open in his daydreams.

_Why didn't it hurt?_

He inhaled sharply, wincing and closing his eyes when his head started to spin, a shrill, tinny whine racing through his ears and hammering into his skull, and before he could say a word it all washed away into unforgiving white.

.~.~.~.~.


	15. Chapter 15

.~.~.~.~.

North Italy didn't mind hospitals. Sure, there was something unsettling about them—the sterile white and cold stainless steel, the steady stream of the sick, the haze of death that hung about over everyone's heads. But in all his centuries of living and all he had seen, he could appreciate them. He valued hospitals, because hospitals meant hope for those who were suffering.

The only thing he really disliked about them was the food. What self-respecting cafeteria didn't at least serve pizza? …Well, it had pizza, but he was sure good pizza didn't ooze grease like that, so it didn't count.

"Ve, I wonder when Ludwig will be back with Francis…" Italy mused aloud, staring glumly at the plastic guard over the long table filled with food. Maybe France had something good to eat—everything he had seen so far either looked or smelled weird.

"I can't imagine it would take them too long," Hungary replied, picking an apple from a basket filled with fruit. "I'm sure Francis is eager to see you and your brother." Italy mimicked her—it was _something_ tasty, at least, and it was hard to go wrong with fresh fruit. He nodded, following Hungary to the end of the line to pay.

He had to force her to stop by grabbing her arm when the room suddenly started spinning, though. "What—Feli? What's wrong?"

"I don't…" Italy gasped when his heart suddenly jumped hard, slamming into his chest, making his stomach turn and oh god he was going to be sick in a second if it didn't stop. He closed his eyes to stem the nausea, taking in a sharp breath through his nose. And then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. He blinked, staring at Hungary, who was now holding onto his shoulders as if he was going to fall over any second, her worried green eyes searching his expression.

And— "Lovino," he breathed, eyes widening. That wasn't his own body he was feeling, somehow; it was his southern half. Something happened.

"Lovino? What—Feliciano, where are you going?" Hungary shouted after him as North Italy took off, just barely managing to avoid a small group of doctors when he burst through the cafeteria doors without warning. She made chase, apologizing quickly to the shouting doctors on her way.

.~.~.~.~.


	16. Chapter 16

.~.~.~.~.

Cold.

Cold cold cold. Burning bright white, burning his eyes to match his burning throat to match his burning lungs to match his racing heart, beating so fast it was going to race out of his chest any second. Breathe breathe he had to _breathe_ but he couldn't, his heart was beating too hard, so fast, thumping against his ribcage and up his throat and now his stomach was turning and he was going to be sick—

Spain.

Spain, where was Spain? He had been here just a second ago, warm but now he was cold and he didn't want…

Didn't want to be here. This place was too cold, too bright, too white, and his limbs were too heavy and sore—when was been the last time he'd moved?

Dizzily he forced his eyes open again, squinting through the fuzz filling his head and the faint buzzing in his ears and the brightness of the light burning through all the way to the back of his head, taking a glazed look around.

He was alone. The only things accompanying him in this cold sterile reality were a few beeping machines and the curtain drawn around where he laid.

"Spain?" he whispered, wincing as his throat grated as if he had just swallowed a mouthful of glass. A wish.

One that would not come true, not in this cold, sterile nightmare. He could feel it; that something that was missing, a gaping hole where one should not be.

He closed his eyes so that it could become whole again.

.~.~.~.~.


	17. Chapter 17

.~.~.~.~.

Something was wrong. Or maybe something was right. North Italy wasn't sure which one it was, but he knew something had changed, and he needed to get to his brother now. So he sprinted through the halls, feeling guilty for the people he knocked shoulders with but not enough to give anything more than a shouted apology, until he reached the door to South Italy's room.

He wrenched the door open with a bang, the door nearly slamming into the wall, and realized that he had been right.

His brother had moved. He'd been laying on his back, perfectly in the center of the bed, but now he was off to the left. He'd been awake, even for only a moment.

His brother had been awake and he'd missed it.

"Romano!" he cried, rushing to his brother's bed, catapulting himself into it as his hands flew to his shoulders, shaking him in desperation. "No! Romano, you can't go back to sleep! Wake up! Romano! **_Romano!_**"

"Italy!" North Italy barely heard the sound of Hungary's panic-shrill voice over his own sobs as he shook his brother's shoulder, shouting his name over and over. Someone grabbed him around the waist, pulling him out of the bed. He thrashed about, trying to get free. "No, let go! I have to make him wake back up, he can't go back to sleep!"

His captor grunted slightly when he managed to land an elbow into their shoulder; but they only shushed him, not letting go. "It's all right, Italy, let the doctors take care of him," France said softly, his beard grazing roughly against the back of his neck. France was here. Italy went limp in his grasp, shaking and sobbing. A watery haze of white and grey and flashes of yellow and blue passed him as France half-dragged, half-lead him away until he was put in a chair somewhere outside. A hand touched his face, wiping away the tears, and he blinked and looked up.

"Shhh, Italy, I've got you…" said France softly, rubbing his thumbs along his cheekbones, trying to soothe him.

"No…"

_You don't have me. Not all of me. Please, catch me, before I fall._

.~.~.~.~.


	18. Chapter 18

.~.~.~.~.

_Wish from the depths of your heart, and it will come true._

When South Italy opened his eyes again, he was warm; the warmth creating a dull haze that was comfortable, but made his head feel like it was stuffed full of cotton, muting everything around him. He squinted, and the brightness around him faded quickly into a green that was soft and easy on the eyes, but indistinct.

He blinked and it gained definition—he was staring up at the leaves on a tree, rustling lightly in the breeze, the sun peeking through the shifting foliage. He moved, feeling something soft slip around underneath him—a blanket was spread under him, soft and comfortable, a nice yellow hue.

He was outside, under one of the many trees in Spain's backyard. But where was—

"Ah, good, you're awake!" South Italy sat up and whipped his head around to see Spain beaming at him, a covered plate in his hands. "That's good, I brought a snack." He sat down on the blanket across from South Italy, setting the plate down between them and uncovering it, revealing a small pile of churros that glistened with sugar. "Ta-dah! They look really good, don't they? Thanks for helping me make them."

South Italy made a non-committal noise, grabbing one off the plate with muttered thanks. The churros were sweet, and Spain's beaming smile and distracted chatter as they ate was comfortable and familiar. He sighed, licking his fingertips clean.

He would never voice it, but he wished that moments like this could last forever.

_If you keep on believing, the dream that you wish will come true..._

.~.~.~.~.


	19. Chapter 19

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South Italy had fallen back into his coma-like state, the doctors said. They didn't know why he had woken up or why he hadn't stayed awake, or for how long he was conscious, but he _had_ been awake if only for just a little while. It wasn't unheard of, they said, for a coma patient to wake up then slip back into the coma. It was a good thing, even. The only problem was South Italy wasn't quite in a coma, so they didn't know what to think.

All the tests had come back. It was just as if he was sleeping. Dreaming. The doctors didn't know why or how, and neither did anyone else. North Italy had even called China, the oldest nation they knew. None of the nations present at the hospital had ever heard of something like this affecting one of them.

Nations have died, sure. Nations have disappeared after battles, never to return. Nations have simply fallen into dust. Nations have died even for love. But as far as China knew, no nation had ever slept to their death.

North Italy crammed himself closer to Hungary, laying his head against her shoulder with a sad sigh as she rubbed comforting circles into his back. Germany and Austria had gone off together to get them something to drink, and presumably to talk. France was sitting in a chair across from them, talking quietly on the phone. He sounded upset, but North Italy wasn't bothered enough to listen to his conversation, too lost in his own thoughts.

His brother had woken up, and even with all the time he had spent convincing his boss to let him stay by his brother's side and all the nights he had slept at the hospital, he had missed it. Would his brother have stayed awake if he had been there? Would it have mattered? Was his presence making any difference at all? If it wasn't, then whose would?

When France angrily smashed the buttons on his phone to end the call, North Italy realized he knew who that person might be. So he made a wish, aloud, for the world to hear.

"I wish Spain was here."

Immediately France's eyes were on him, Hungary pulling her shoulder away to look down at him, worry etching deeper lines into her skin. He wanted to smooth them away, feeling guilty. He was letting this happen…because he was too weak, wasn't the right person for the job. He couldn't help his brother to wake up…

France smiled at him, a wretched ghost of a smile in a failed attempt to be comforting, and asked him, "why?"

North Italy closed his eyes, hiding his face in Hungary's shoulder. "Because my brother would wake up for him."

He could feel France's eyes on him, but he didn't look back, even when Hungary whispered at him, rubbing his shoulder. "Oh, Italy…"

"Don't," Italy said sharply, fingers bunching up in his pant legs at his thighs. "Don't call me that. Don't call me Italy."

"What? Why? But that's—"

"No, that's not just my name. It's his too! Why am _I_ Italy, and he's just South? We're the same, the same nation, why am I…I…" he stifled a sob, inhaling sharply and choking on it, curling around Hungary's side. "I hate this! Why can't he just come back? Why can't he come back for me? I don't…I don't want to be the only Italy…"

"Veneziano…" France whispered, chair creaking on the linoleum floor as he stood up to sit behind him. "I understand that, _cher_, I really do. I do not wish anything to befall little Romano as well. But…what good is chasing after the dead?" He sighed, and Italy got the distinct feeling that France wasn't talking about just him. "A fool's wish, a fool's desire…chasing after the dead to try to right a wrong…"

"B-But what if he never wakes up? What if I can't make him wake up? What if…what if I'm not the one who can do it?"

"North Italy." Jumping slightly at the stern quality of Austria's voice, North Italy looked up, hands still tight in his trousers, tears still running down his face. He sniffed wetly, blinking up at Austria who had a tray of Styrofoam cups in one hand and the other on his hip, purple gaze firmly on him. Germany hovered behind him, looking unsure. "Wishing for the impossible will do us no good."

He shook his head when Hungary frowned at him, and continued on. "As adverse as I am to admit it, France is right. Wishing for Spain to come and miraculously awaken South Italy will not solve our problems," Austria continued, his voice rigid, "We cannot rely on the dead." But then his gaze softened, a bit sad, a bit haunted, but not as harsh. "Your brother cares deeply for you, North Italy. If he is meant to come back to us, he will. You must remember: as long as he's still alive, you have a chance to get him back. It's a lot more than some of us have."

North Italy's eyes fell to the floor, biting his lip as his heart clenched in guilt. Hungary said something to Austria, standing up, and he brought his knees up onto the bench and to his chest, rubbing at his face with his sleeves. France laid a hand on his shoulder, steadying him when he leaned too far to the left.

"No, Hungary, stop," North Italy said pitifully, voice a hair above a whisper, but she stopped nonetheless. "He's right, don't yell at him, please don't yell at him…" He was being selfish. He didn't want anyone to fight. "Don't fight, please don't fight, I don't want you to…"

All he wanted was his brother to wake up, for life to begin to return to some form of normalcy. Was that really too much to ask for?

.~.~.~.~.


	20. Chapter 20

.~.~.~.~.

His fingers were cold, South Italy thought, staring detachedly at his hand through the semi-darkness of the bedroom. A little numb too, but that might have been because he had been laying on it for quite a while now. Spain was resting quietly on the bed behind him, breathing slow and deep, but he could tell he wasn't asleep quite yet from the way he kept shifting; warm arms around his waist tensing and relaxing minutely.

"Oi, Spain," South Italy called out softly, scowling and squirming when Spain responded by nuzzling the top of his head.

"Yes?"

"…" South Italy paused, chest contracting slightly when he went to say something and stopped himself at the last second. Something had been bothering him, niggling at the back of his mind no matter how much he tried to ignore it. It was probably just because of those stupid nightmares, or him just being paranoid, or whatever, but…

Spain hugged him tighter in response. "What is it, Romano? Is something bothering you?" he asked, planting a kiss on the top of his head. South Italy snorted and shook his head, pulling away from his embrace.

"…It's a stupid question…" he said quietly, watching his hand, palm up toward the ceiling and dyed sliver in the moonlight. Pale. Cold. Thin. Like the dreams, shining dust collecting around his heart, trapping his worries with it.

"There are no such things as stupid questions." Spain scooted over toward him, pulling himself up so that he was on his hands and knees, hovering over South Italy. South Italy was silent for a moment, quelling the snarky "you'd know all about stupid questions, wouldn't you?" comment that cropped up in his mind, keeping his gaze on his hand, pale and thinned by shadows.

"…How do you know when you're about to die?"

Spain grew silent, so silent South Italy was about to tell him to forget it, it was stupid and didn't matter and he was being silly, they were just nightmares weren't they? This was what was right, right? He startled slightly when Spain reached out, gently grasping his chilled, pale, thin in the moonlight hand.

"When you can no longer make a fist," he answered, curling Romano's fingers up tight with his own warm hand. "And if there comes a time when you can't, I'll help you make one. I promise." Romano looked up at Antonio's face, smiling down at him, a lump catching in his throat.

Later he would deny it, but he then opened his hand and curled their fingers together before leaning up to kiss him for all he was worth. To forget the dream. To forget a place where Spain couldn't help him make a fist.

To forget everything that was wrong with the world.

.~.~.~.~.


	21. Chapter 21

.~.~.~.~.

Although it felt wrong to admit it, like they say, the world keeps on spinning, and time keeps marching on.

Three weeks. He'd been in the hospital for three weeks now, and North Italy was running out of time. There was a meeting in two days, regarding the state of the world economy and the situation in Spain and Portugal, among other nations. North Italy had been forced to go back to work to prepare for the meeting—while he wanted to stay by his brother's side, he couldn't bear to just dump all the work onto someone else. He would take responsibility. He wouldn't be useless, not this time.

He could take comfort in the fact that as soon as Prussia had heard about what happened, he had offered to sit by South Italy's side when North Italy couldn't, saying his awesomeness was just the thing that South Italy needed. At the very least, his brother wouldn't be lonely, and for that he was grateful. But there had been some rioting in the south, which weren't doing his nerves any good. Either the anarchy in Spain was spreading, or his brother was sliding further away from him. He didn't like either option. He had tried to hide the effects, but he should have known he wouldn't have been able to keep anything from France, Germany, or Prussia. Covering himself up only did so much; the aches in his movements were what gave him away. He didn't know how his brother did it, dealing with all these violent people.

He hoped he wouldn't have to figure it out. For now, though, there was work to do. Belgium, Switzerland, and Liechtenstein were arriving today, along with America and…what's-his-face later this evening, and he had to be ready for them.

He could handle this, or so he told himself.

.~.~.~.~.


	22. Chapter 22

.~.~.~.~.

_Where the line between reality and a dream blurs under the stroke of a wish, misfortune lingers._

South Italy felt dizzy, light-headed. He was staring headlong into the darkness, the warmth of a fire at his back. Mud squished under his boots, soaking uncomfortably into the seat of his pants as he sat, curled up at the foot of a stone slab which was blank except for two words.

_Plus Ultra. _

Laughter broke out behind him, and he bit his lip and winced at the almost-painful tinny sound that rushed though his ears and shivered down his spine, like the screech of nails on a chalkboard. The darkness of the valley in front of him was ever moving, bewitching him with the crunching of leaves and snapping of twigs.

Everyone behind him was having a good time, reminiscing and drinking in Spain's honor, in the place he last stood. South Italy wanted no part of it. He wanted to be alone. No, that was a lie. He wanted to be with Spain. He wanted so many impossible things.

In the end, he decided on one thing he wanted most. He wished to be free from this nightmare.

**I want to go to where you are. Don't leave me.**

And so South Italy stood, and the darkness swallowed him whole.

_But be careful of what you wish for…_

.~.~.~.~.


	23. Chapter 23

**Important notice time!** **After this chapter, the story will SPLIT into two different endings. I will be posting the intended ending first, then the alternate ending. The different endings will be appropriately labeled by their chapter names, so pay attention so you don't get confused! There will likely be a pause in updates between completion of the original ending and when I start uploading the alternate, however. Hope everyone enjoys!**

.~.~.~.~.

_And reality, like darkness, twined its tiny tendrils into North Italy's heart._

The meeting center was set and prepared. Four chairs sat behind the names of nations who would not be arriving, empty spaces that served as haunting reminders of the severity of their meeting.

Greece was too ill to make it; holding onto the world by a borrowed thread. His seat was harrowingly empty. Portugal's seat had been placed next to the United Kingdom's at England's request. Only a name card would sit there as a reminder of who could be there. Why England insisted on it, North Italy didn't—and did not wish to—know. Spain's empty seat sat across the table, right in his line of sight, taunting North Italy with each glance.

And South Italy's seat was right beside him, to his right. A permanent lump had lodged in his throat from it, keeping him at the brink of tears.

North Italy could barely stand to be in the room with these empty chairs. He had no idea how he was going to manage being in it with the rest of the world filling it, the vacant seats cast into even greater notice.

But he promised himself, promised his brother that he would be strong. They would figure this out. His brother would fill that seat again. He had to.

Romano couldn't leave him to face this world alone, could he?

.~.~.~.~.


	24. Original Ending Part 1

.~.~.~.~.

If one can push through the blur and make it past misfortune, illness waits silently behind him. The fluttery weightlessness between reality and delusion is where she likes to linger, poisoning the mind with her wicked designs, holding one in her heated grip.

South Italy paid neither any mind, pressing headlong in pursuit of fantasy; leaving pieces of himself behind as he went. Misfortune cackled gleefully, picking up and polishing the pieces, and illness waited ahead of South Italy, arms open for him to fall softly into her embrace.

_I'm waiting_, Spain said, his voice echoing in South Italy's head. _I love you. I want to see you again. _

_I'm coming, don't you dare leave without me,_ he called desperately back, not noticing as illness' lips twitched, spread into a smile and then curled into words.

_I won't, I promise,_ she said, and South Italy only heard Spain's deep voice, disembodied but familiar. He reached out, and felt overheated fingers twine with his own.

_I finally found you_, South Italy gasped, his breathing growing rapid and shallow.

Illness only smiled wider and pulled him gently to her; felt his body heat up and his heart start racing as their bodies brushed together. _You did_, she said gently, curling herself around him tightly. _Now I'll never let you go._

.~.~.~.~.


	25. Original Ending Part 2

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The day of the meeting arrived to fill Italy's stomach with acid, burning every inch of his insides all the way up to his throat. He and Germany were the first ones in the room, sorting last minute things with the staff while the rest of the nations slowly trickled in, hushed with whispers and the occasional scraping of a chair as they took their seats. North Italy tried his best to not look across the table or to his right, but it seemed his eyes treacherously wanted to settle there as he repeatedly caught himself staring at one of them, as if waiting for someone to fill them.

Slowly the din in the room swelled in volume as more nations arrived, and North Italy spent his time greeting people, heart racing as he exchanged pleasantries as distractions. America beamed at him and clapped him on the back, greeting him exuberantly and asking how he was before wandering off to be intercepted by China. England greeted him warmly, but his smile was strained and deformed from a bandaged cut across his cheek. Japan said hello quietly and politely, but North Italy caught his eyes wandering to Greece's empty seat repeatedly, and eventually left him to his own devices, nodding in understanding. _Hello, how are you, I am fine._ Lies and lies and more forced pleasantries, his heart racing the entire time and making his stomach turn.

Soon enough the meeting started, and North Italy returned to his seat, unusually quiet as discussion began and nations argued on what to do. Slide after slide of facts and names and incidents went across the screen explaining the situation in Spain and Portugal and the growing unrest in Greece and now in his own southern half, the middle east caught in revolution again, and North Italy didn't have the stomach to even bother taking notes as the dread grew and coiled and burned his insides.

_Lealtad, estabilidad y protección _was the European Spanish-led rebelling party's motto_,_ born from anger over corruption and poor spending by their governments;_ Del Pueblo_, the people, stood up for themselves. Spain fell at their hands with the hope of rebirth—Portugal disappearing with him. South Italy was seeing riots from the backlash. Greece hung onto a string weakening from mismanagement, his people inspired from the unrest in the west and the east. The rest of the world was losing their footing in the process, down the slippery slope the world economy had become.

They were trying their best, but as the meeting went on and the slides and faces of his fellow nations went by, tired and angry and old, North Italy only had the sickening feeling that there was nothing they could do.

_We thought we were immortal. Now we are faced with the reality we've been trying to avoid for centuries—that nothing is permanent, not even nations. Everything crumbles to dust._

_Ashes, ashes, until we all fall down…_

.~.~.~.~.


	26. Original Ending Part 3

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As illness wrapped herself more securely around South Italy, her venom sank into his very core. He stumbled along in the darkness, seeing ghosts; a shock of brown here, disappearing into the dark, a glint of green there, gone as soon as he saw it, the tinkling of his voice, echoing around him.

Illness' good friend Death waited patiently, thin skeletal hands outstretched, ready to embrace South Italy as he wandered blind toward his grasp, the nation calling out for his love. Illness whispered in his ear, urging him on, and misfortune trailed after them, grinning and clipping at South Italy's heels.

_There is love of course. And then there's life, its enemy._

.~.~.~.~.


	27. Original Ending Part 4

.~.~.~.~.

It was the second day of meetings during a break that North Italy got a phone call from his boss. A major riot had broken out in Rome, and parts of the city were on fire. Things were grim, and the police were having trouble keeping the rebelling people back.

Three minutes after he had finished with his boss, he got a call from the hospital.

Lovino Vargas' condition has worsened dramatically, the nurse said. She recommended he get to the hospital as soon as he could.

He left the meeting center without a second thought, hailed a taxi, and was in his brother's room in no time flat. By now the meeting had resumed, and Germany had called him seven times, France four, Hungary five, and Austria and America once each. He hadn't answered, and by the time America called, he turned his phone off. He knew it wasn't fair, to make them worry about him, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He wanted to be with his brother, alone, if only for a little while.

He sat by his brother's bed, in an uncomfortable plastic chair, listening as the ventilator hissed and gasped and the heart monitor beeped erratically. He reached out, curling his fingers around South Italy's chilly, clammy hand. He felt dizzy, the nausea painting the room in hazy, sterile hues. It all felt unreal. Like a dream.

A nurse came back in to check in on him, but North Italy largely ignored her, answering her questions quietly as he kept his eyes on his brother, holding his hand. She fiddled with South Italy's IV, checked the readings on the machines surrounding them, and left as North Italy whispered, "Fratello, if you can hear me…please squeeze my hand…please fratello…"

No matter how much he pleaded, no matter how many tears rolled down his cheeks and onto their joined hands, South Italy did not respond.

.~.~.~.~.


	28. Original Ending Part 5

.~.~.~.~.

_Where are we going?_ South Italy rasped between shallow breaths, hand entwined tightly with illness' clammy one as they ran headlong into darkness.

_A special place_, she said, Spain's voice still coming unnaturally through her lips. _A place where we can be together, forever. That's what you want, isn't it?_

He didn't get to answer before he suddenly tumbled forward into hard, bony arms, and then into unforgiving white. He had never liked the sensation of falling.

He never really hit the ground, per say. To him, one second he was falling and the next he was nauseated and lethargic, but stationary. He opened his eyes only to find more unforgiving white—a hazy place that wasn't really bright, but just so matte and plain it hurt his eyes. He decided he should try to sit up, but found he couldn't muster the effort. He was just so _tired_. Instead, he turned his head, finding his arm stretched out to his side, a dreamlike memory coming unbidden to his mind.

_How do you know when you're about to die?_

_When you can no longer make a fist._

He couldn't help but try. His fingers merely twitched. Panic struck his heart, and he tried again, to no avail.

"No," he whispered, fighting back tears, trying to move his fingers together. His body mutinously disobeyed, and he cried out desperately to the person he habitually went to when something he couldn't handle was happening. "Spain!"

He opened his eyes to bright green ones, hovering over him, a mixture of worry and happiness and regret swirling in their depths. _Forgive me; I wanted to see you one last time._

"Thank God," South Italy whimpered, relief washing over him. "Where have you been, idiot? I…I…" I missed you, I need you, please, stay…

_I've been right here, watching you the whole time, _he said, his voice echoing around with a slightly eerie quality. He sat down in the curve between South Italy's outstretched arm and his hips, crossing his legs.

One brushed against South Italy's ribs, and a lick of fear ran through him when he realized Spain was cold. Not like the Spain he knew. Like death.

"…You're dead, aren't you." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Spain seemed to be thrown off by it, but nodded nonetheless. "Is this a dream?" South Italy rasped, throat growing dry and thick.

Spain had the audacity to smile. South Italy glared at him mutinously, appalled by his impudence. "What's so funny, bastard?"

_Nothing_, he said quickly, his expression turning serious. It was such an odd expression for him—South Italy didn't like it. _It's not funny, Romano, it's just_… he sighed, not able to hold it. _I'm not very good at being serious, am I? I don't have a whole lot of time for this—I'm pushing my limits as it is. I managed to convince God to let me see you like this, but I'm not sure for how long._

"This isn't a dream, is it," South Italy said softly, tears springing up in his eyes again. Spain nodded, looking relieved. "All of that other stuff was, but this isn't." He sighed. "I guess I knew all along, I just didn't want to realize it…" The dream was too good, too beautiful to be true. Spain was dead, and he wasn't, and there wasn't anything he could do about that. … His attention returned to his rebellious hand for a moment. "Am I…dying?"

That smile quirked back into Spain's expression, and he made a humming noise in the back of his throat, tilting his head to the side a bit. _Yes and no. It depends on you—all of this depends on what you decide now._

"What do you mean?"

_You got here searching for me, didn't you? You came all the way down this path trying to find me. _He chuckled again, more sad than incredulous this time. _I can't say I'm not flattered and happy you wanted me back so badly, I missed you too, but at the same time, I can't just let you do this without realizing it. I begged God to let me see you here so I could give you a choice._

South Italy swallowed thickly, knowing what this choice detailed deep down, but not wanting to face it. He didn't want to have to pick. It wasn't _fair_. "Don't make me choose between you and the world."

_You have to. You can't have both. I can't go back, but you can. _He smiled, truly, honestly smiled, and for a moment he was the bright, dopey, wonderfully alive and beautiful Spain that South Italy remembered so vividly and wanted back so desperately. _You have your brother to look after, and your citizens. They still love you, deep down, however disillusioned they've become. You still have the chance to pull through, Lovi. You just have to be brave. You can make that fist on your own._

And South Italy realized he could. A wonderful sensation went through his body—like the blood finally returning to a limb that had fallen asleep, but instead of painful pinpricks it was like a shudder of relief. He could move his hand, he could get up and leave Spain and return back to the world. He curled his fingers slightly, but hesitated. The real world—not one of dreams, but harsh reality. One without Spain, with heartache and loneliness and blood spilled over petty things.

And he realized he didn't want to go back. He wanted to keep on dreaming, whatever it took.

His brother didn't need him. He toddled after Germany—and even if he was a rotten potato-bastard, he did take good care of him. His brother had never really needed him, he was strong enough on his own. Stronger than him. He just didn't realize it. South Italy wasn't dumb enough to trick himself into thinking his brother wanted him, either—it was Germany this, Germany that. No one had ever really wanted him—even his citizens had turned on him and set fire to his very heart. There had only ever been one person who had ever made him feel like he was wanted. And he was sitting right next to him.

"No."

_No?_ Spain parroted, surprised.

"I'm not brave. I'm a coward, and I know it, even if I don't want to admit it. I don't want to go back to that world." He sat up, grabbing Spain around the neck desperately, much to Spain's surprise, who reciprocated if only to prevent them from overbalancing. "You _are_ my world, Spain. I'd follow you anywhere. And I'm sorry it took me this long to tell you."

Spain was clutching him just as distraughtly now, and South Italy could feel him shaking slightly. He pulled back, and Spain's eyes were watery. _I can't say I approve, but, I've never been able to keep you from what you wanted. I guess I failed as a mentor, didn't I?_ They both laughed dryly this time.

"Says the one who died first, idiot."

_I love you. Even if you're a bit spoiled. That's probably my fault._

Lovino blushed darkly. "…I love you too. And I'm not—oof!" He didn't get to finish when Spain all but tackled him, laughing loudly.

_You said you loved me! You're so cute, all red like a tomato!_

"Shut up, I am not cute! You're smothering me, goddammit! Get off!" But through all his false anger, he couldn't help but smile when Spain pressed his lips to his, gentle and sweet.

_Hey, God. Even if this happy ending is fake, I don't care…since this is the only one that satisfies me._

.~.~.~.~.


	29. Original Ending Finale

.~.~.~.~.

Lovino Romano Vargas died on the first snowfall of the year.

It was too early, everyone said, for the nation to be this cold. Too early, too soon, for it to be snowing. Too early for death, too early for war. The streets were still burning, and they would continue.

North Italy limped along at the lead of the procession, behind his brother's casket, Germany and France close behind him. The fires left a long burn along his leg, making walking painful, but he wasn't about to let himself be coddled. Not anymore. He was on his own now, and he was going to show the world that he could handle it. No more would Italy be weak. He couldn't afford to be, not anymore, not without his brother to support him, and he without a brother to support in return. If he didn't, he wasn't sure what would happen to him, if this revolution would take him too like his brother. He had survived many, ones much bloodier than this, but there had been so many funerals as of late.

The rest of the world wasn't fairing very well either, and he knew not just from word of mouth. He glanced back at the long line behind him, partially in wonder and partially in tearful gratitude. So many nations had come—if his brother could see them, he would be in shock. He probably never realized just how many nations actually cared.

As the casket was lowered into the ground and the priest sprinkled it with holy water, North Italy—no, just Italy now, wasn't he?—found himself looking not at the ground, but the sky.

"Grant this mercy, O Lord, we beseech Thee, to Thy servant departed, that he may not receive in punishment the requital of his deeds who in desire did keep Thy will, and as the true faith here united him to the company of the faithful, so may Thy mercy unite him above to the choirs of angels. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."

.~.~.~.~.

_When someone special passes on  
>It does not mean that they are gone,<br>Although they are no longer with us  
>Their memory still lives on. <em>

_Dreams are special, fickle things  
>Dearest to our hearts<br>They hold the things we wish for most  
>An unblemished piece of art.<em>

_But beware the dream that seems too good  
>Too perfect to be true<br>Before you know it, there's no way out  
>It has captured you.<em>

Where you used to be, there is a hole in the ground. I find myself constantly walking around it in the daytime, and falling into it at night. I miss you like hell.

We will all miss you, all of you. Even if we never said it, deep down, we loved you. The world isn't the same, not without you. Draw a circle, it's you. Draw a circle, it's me. Draw a circle, it's the world. Despite our differences, we're all cut from the same cloth. So watch over us, our brothers and sisters. In the years to come, we'll need it.

We hope you're happy, wherever you are.

_May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace._

.~.~.~.~.

.

.

**A/N:** I hope you all had a good read. This story has been my baby for well over a year now, so now that it's finished, it's sad to see it go. Thanks to all my readers and reviewers (especially you, Kitty :P) who saw this thing through to the end~

For those of you who were interested in the alternate ending, give me a few weeks and I'll start posting it.


	30. Alternate Ending Part 1

**A/N:** TWO MONTHS LATER...

Haha, sorry about the delay. I went through a rough patch of I DON'T WANT TO WORK ON THIS ANYMORE I WANNA DO NOTHING when writing this alternate ending, so it took me a while to get it done.

Anyway, here's part one of the alternate ending to_ I Dream Of Things That Never Will Be_. If you wish to refresh yourself on what was happening before the split, please refer to chapters 23 and prior.

.~.~.~.~.

Through the haze of darkness lies illness, waiting for the ones misfortune leads along. Her presence is a warm and inviting contrast to the biting shadows misfortune flourishes in, but false is her comfort, heated from disease.

South Italy paid these demons no heed, the wisps of fantasy slipping through his fingers. Unaware of the danger that lurked ahead, his fervent calls for his desires only clouded the darkness further.

_Spain!_ South Italy shouted desperately into the haze, voice cracking. _You bastard, where are you? _Not a single soul answered, not even his own voice.

Never had he felt so alone.

As South Italy continued to screech into the blackness, fighting against his worst nightmares come true, illness grinned, showing a grotesque, putrid smile. Misfortune giggled, dancing unnoticed at South Italy's heels. Behind them, a glint of silver and bone whispered into the darkness, saying: _come, my dear. I am waiting for you._

.~.~.~.~.


	31. Alternate Ending Part 2

.~.~.~.~.

Soon, too soon, the day of the meeting arrived. It began easily enough, Germany hovering comfortably nearby as the nations started filing in, hushed to whispers as they began exchanging pleasantries. _Hello, how have you been? I'm fine, how are you. Nice to see you again. Please, take a seat._ North Italy did so distractedly; trying to tame his traitorous eyes as they did their best to settle on every chair he knew wouldn't be occupied. The gaunt and grieving faces of his fellow nations did nothing to quell the nausea that was burning from his insides out.

The meeting started, and North Italy sat quietly in his seat, trying his best to pay attention. Slide upon slide of France's presentation of the refugee camps and chaos running rampant in Spain went by, every image making his heart ache in all the worst places. _Lealtad, estabilidad y protección. _The European Spanish-led revolutionaries yelled this across their war-torn streets: a motto, a wish. A dream they would die for: _Loyalty_ to the people and their neighbors, _Stability_ in their economy, _Protection_ by their government. Reasonable requests, ones they should have been able to count on, but had felt had been stripped from them for far too long.

England was next, looking a little more worse for wear than some of the others—there was a long scratch along his cheek, relatively fresh but healing. He detailed his experience through Portugal, speaking about his search for the nation himself as well as his military's handle on the country's collapse with a tone that was tactful and rather matter-of-fact, but Italy could detect an undercurrent of disappointment running through it.

If England felt like a failure for not being able to figure out what happened to Portugal (was he alive, and if not, how and where he had passed on), how could North Italy ever feel hopeful for himself? He had always been the underdog, and probably rightfully so. Stupid, silly, pasta-loving Italy who couldn't figure out how to tie his shoes, much less how to save his brother.

His friends, his brother, everyone was suffering because he hadn't managed himself well enough. He failed to protect his people and his own interests, and now so much of the rest of the EU and the world were bearing the load to help him pick up the pieces.

Out of everything, he hated himself the most. He couldn't do anything right, could he?

Germany nudged him then, a concerned expression flushing through his features. It took Germany handing him a tissue for North Italy to realize he was shaking, tears spilling down his cheeks. He quickly glanced around, noticing several nations watching him with sympathetic eyes. North Italy clenched the tissue in his hand hard, quickly scrubbing his face with it.

No. He wasn't going to cry like this, not anymore. Sitting and crying and begging for help wasn't going to get him anywhere—it wasn't going to make his brother wake up, fix his finances, settle his people. Those would be fixed with his own two hands.

Everyone was going to pull through. Even if he had to make sure of it himself.

.~.~.~.~.


	32. Alternate Ending Part 3

.~.~.~.~.

_There is love, of course. And then there's life, its enemy._

"Spain! Spain!" South Italy called out, over and over, his voice growing more and more ragged as he gasped for breath; heartbeat quickening as illness and misfortune circled him, unseen ghosts that tugged him here and there though the blinding emptiness. He ran, compelled by their touches; phantoms of Spain's image pressed into a desperate mind. He ran until he could no longer, stumbling to a worn-out stop as he was forced to realize, with a start, that he wasn't getting anywhere.

What was he doing, in this strange dark empty place? The answer came easier than he could have imagined: chasing ghosts; fickle and unattainable dreams.

He was hunting lies.

South Italy, breath heavy and laden with tears, sank to his knees, unknowingly a hair's breadth from death's embrace as illness and misfortune closed in behind him. He fell, blissfully, into a wash of white.

_Romano…_

_.~.~.~.~._


	33. Alternate Ending Part 4

.~.~.~.~.

As the meeting wore on into the second day, North Italy tried his best to keep himself together. He _had_ to show the international community that he wasn't ready to fall yet—that he was working hard to keep his people happy, working towards fixing the problems that had put him and his brother in such a predicament in the first place. The rest of the UN and EU couldn't afford to hold his hand. They had enough on their plates without having to help him all the time—he had to show them that he was strong enough to do it.

It was during a break that he got a call from his boss. Things were doing well, he said. They had managed to quell a riot in Rome before it got too out of hand, the protestors miraculously turning peaceful once more. It was a great relief to hear, lifting a bit of the burden off of his shoulders, at least for a little while.

Five minutes after finishing his call with his boss, he got a call from the hospital. South Italy's heart rate and breathing had been fluctuating a lot over the course of the morning, and while they weren't sure what it might mean, they thought it was best if he came to see him.

He dropped everything and left the meeting place without a word, arriving to his brother's hospital room in no time flat. He sat by his bedside, clutching his brother's hand, phone turned off and deep inside his pocket, forgotten as he talked quietly.

"Things will get better, I know they will. We'll just have to work hard, right, _fratello_? You just have to wake up. Then we'll work hard and no one else will have to suffer. No one else will have to die. So please…" he dropped his voice to a whisper, squeezing South Italy's hand slightly. "Please, wake up."

.~.~.~.~.


	34. Alternate Ending Part 5

**A/N:** I meant to upload one of these every day, but work has been exhausting the past four days. As an apology, I'll be uploading the rest tonight.

Comments of any kind are awesome, even if it's just incoherent babbling. To everyone who has reviewed: much love to you! You all make me so happy. :D

.~.~.~.~.

_Perdóname, yo queria verte una última vez._

The words came to South Italy's mind like a whisper, startling him from the soft fogginess of unconsciousness. He opened his eyes to squint into a whiteness that wasn't quite bright, but so matte and dull it hurt his eyes nonetheless.

There was nothing here. His surroundings were just an endless swath of muted white, slithering and shifting in and out of place like air on a hot summer's day. He closed his eyes with a grimace, unable to pull the effort to move. He was just so tired…

_How do you know when you're about to die?_

The thought came as suddenly as the last, pushing him back towards consciousness like a gentle but insisting hand at his back. _When you can no longer make a fist_, South Italy supplied from his own mind this time, and opened his eyes, more alert now. Where, exactly, had that come from?

He found only his hand, outstretched from his side, laying palm up and limp towards the colorless sky. And try as he might, he discovered, he could not curl his fingers in. He could not make a fist. Panic jumped his heart into action, beating against his ribcage like a panicked bird, and he croaked out, "Spain?"

_I'm here, Romano._

South Italy gasped, managing to turn his head to the other side against the lethargy, relief washing over him so quickly it was dizzying. There Spain was, smiling down at him, feet just out of his reach.

"You…You idiot, where have you been?" South Italy grunted, trying and failing to sit up, to reach up to him. "I've been…looking all over…for you…" His chest felt tight, an invisible weight clutching around his ribs and making it difficult to breathe.

Spain's smile faltered slightly, a little bit of the brightness falling away from his face. _I've been here the whole time, watching over you_. His voice had an eerie quality, like it was being projected through a filter; not really there but there at the same time. It reverberated in the dull white space, muted slightly by the haze. Spain approached him, settling down in the space between South Italy's other outstretched hand and his hips. _This probably isn't the best circumstance, but I wanted to see you, one last time._

"What...do you mean…one last time?" Romano struggled to ask through his breathlessness, still reeling too much from the rush of relief to understand.

_I'm sure you've figured that out by now, mi cariño. _Still smiling, Spain reached over, running his fingers lightly against South Italy's cheek, wiping away his tears with a frigid hand. Spain was cold. Not like the Spain he knew, but like death.

Spain was dead, and South Italy had always known it. The realization struck him hard in the chest, causing tears to well up again. Spain shushed him, cold fingers brushing them away once more, causing South Italy to shiver.

"Is this a dream?" South Italy asked, tinges of hope still clinging desperately to his voice.

_Ah, that's a good question! And the answer is, well, yes and no. What's happening now is definitely only in your mind. But, both of our conditions are reflections of reality. Funny, isn't it?_

South Italy swallowed hard at the lump in his throat, closing his eyes tightly as Spain continued to lightly caress his face. "So you're dead." _I've been lying to myself the whole time. _Spain paused, pulling away and growing silent."And I…" South Italy took a deep breath, trying and failing to move at all. "I'm dying. That's why I can't move, why I can't even make a fist."

_Hmm, well, that last one depends on you. But, yes, I am dead, and there is nothing you or I can do to change that. But you still have a chance. You can still live, Romano._

"You're an idiot. I've come all this way looking for you."

_And I'm honored. But as much as I want to be with you, I don't want you to die. I came to see you to make it clear that you still have a choice._

He was right, South Italy realized. Spain was right. He could still live. He could feel it, that little spark of life, spreading warmly from his chest all the way to his fingertips. He could move, if he wanted. He could make a fist, if he wanted. He could live, if he wanted. His fingers twitched.

But that meant leaving Spain behind.

"What if I don't want to go back? What if I want to stay with you?" South Italy whispered, voice hoarse and cracking. "They don't need me, not in the real world."

_You know that's not true. What about your brother? He's been calling for you, ever since you fell asleep._

South Italy's throat closed again, fresh tears springing up. His hands twitched, fingers curling slightly. "I know. God, I know." He could feel North Italy's anguish; had been feeling it all this time and ignoring it. He missed his brother, he did, and he felt guilty for making him suffer so much.

_He needs you. Your citizens do too, however disillusioned they've become._

South Italy shook his head and opened his reddened watery eyes to gaze up at Spain, whose smile had diminished into a distressed frown.

_Romano, don't do this. Don't follow in my footsteps. Please, for me, be brave and let go._ Spain's hands were back on his face, soft and cold, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. _I love you. Keep on living._

"Damn it, don't you see? I'm not fucking brave! I'm…" he paused, the words catching in his throat. "I'm a coward. I can't stand the idea of living in a world where you're not in it. It…it frightens me."

_It's okay to be scared, mi amor. Bravery isn't the opposite of fear; I've never met a brave man who did not know fear. You are brave, Romano, because you are afraid, but still persevere. _One of Spain's hands moved from South Italy's face to tangle with his fingers, his hand enveloping South Italy's own. South Italy shifted, wiggling in anxiety and trepidation, his toes curling. _I'll help you if you need me to. I promised you that when the time came I'd help you make a fist, to keep on living, remember?_

"I remember." Whether that memory was real or a fabrication, an illusion created by his grief-clouded mind; whether this moment was real or not, he didn't care. He remembered. He would always remember. He took a deep breath, the first one that didn't make his lungs feel like they were about to implode in a long while, exhaling out of his nose. He flexed his fingers, the pads brushing against Spain's, which didn't feel quite so cold anymore. "Okay."

_I'll live on, for you, for my brother, for my people. I won't like a second of it, this time where we're apart, but I'll suffer through it knowing I can find you at the other end._

He curled his fingers together; Spain's fingers a gentle but insisting pressure as he leaned down to kiss him, lightly and sweetly. When they parted, South Italy looked up at him, expression irritated. "You dipshit, that's not how you kiss someone goodbye."

South Italy leaned up, crushing their lips together, mind-numbingly desperate. Spain kissed back just as fervently, their teeth clinking together in the rush, but neither could bring themselves to care. When they parted, Spain was smiling, silly and affectionate, as everything washed calmly back into darkness, a ghost of a goodbye lingering in his ears.

He woke, dizzy and disoriented, to a white sterile room, eerily reminiscent of the strange place he had just been. His brother was clutching him desperately, sobbing incoherently into his shoulder.

"Stop crying, moron. I'm awake. I'm awake…"

_The worst thing about dreams is that moment afterward, when you are finally fully awake, and you realize that the dream is not reality, that it didn't happen, and it never will._

.~.~.~.~.


	35. Alternate Ending Finale & Acknowledgment

.~.~.~.~.

The wind was strong the night South Italy returned to the hill by Spain's house, biting cold and laced with the oncoming threat of winter. It whipped at the blanket wrapped around his shoulders—the same blanket he had brought with him the day Spain disappeared—making the hem snap against his calves. It didn't smell like Spain anymore, but he likes to pretend it still does; the scent of mud, decaying leaves, and the sweet smell of campfire smoke filling his lungs with his memories.

Sat on this hill, fire pit suffering in the wind but alight and the stars as bright as ever, half of South Italy still wished he had gone with Spain. It was a wish he felt guilty for keeping, and would never admit it to anyone, but it was one he kept close to his heart nonetheless. South Italy buried his nose into the cloying familiarity of the blanket, watching the stars twinkle and shift in the distance, _Plus Ultra_ carved into the slate in front of him dancing in and out of legibility.

"But even so," South Italy found himself saying, eyes trained on the stars, "thank you, bastard. Thank you for saving my life. Here, alive, is where I need to be right now…even if I don't like it." He inhaled and exhaled deeply, eyes trained on the gravestone. "I don't know where you are, or where you'll be. Or where I'll turn up when it's my turn. But, wherever you are, I…can feel your stupid smile on me. And it's comforting, I guess. Knowing that you're watching me. So…wait for me."

Sat on this hill wrapped in a blanket full of memories, South Italy found himself feeling not sad and nostalgic, but strangely warm and content. For the first time since he had woken up, he felt…happy. It was okay. He missed Spain dearly, but…everything would be okay.

He could wait.

.~.~.~.~.

_When someone special passes on  
>It does not mean that they are gone,<br>Although they are no longer with us  
>Their memory still lives on. <em>

_Spain, you will always be with me  
>In spirit and in mind.<br>You'll always have a special place in my heart  
>Forever, until the end of time. <em>

_I know one day I'll see you  
>The day I say adieu<br>Until then, I'll keep on living  
>If only just for you.<em>

Where you used to be, there is a hole in the ground. I find myself constantly walking around it in the daytime, and falling into it at night. I miss you like hell.

So watch over me, you bastard. I know I'll have to remind you, you're that scatterbrained. You know I'll need you to protect me, so don't forget. I love you.

I'll see you, idiot.

.~.~.~.~.

.

.

.

**Acknowledgments:**

I came by a lot of inspiration from other works over the process of writing this fic, including but not limited to some of the quotes interspersed throughout the story. Instead of clogging up such short chapters with long author's notes, I thought it would be better to just lump it all at the very end so I wouldn't disrupt the flow of the eventual completed work.

Direct Quotes:

_"If you keep on believing, the dream that you wish will come true..." -Disney's Cinderella_

_"There is love of course. And then there's life, its enemy." -Jean Anouilh_

__"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the ground. I find myself constantly walking around it in the daytime, and falling into it at night. I miss you like hell._" _-Edna St. Vincent Milay. Slightly misquoted, probably due to the place I originally found it at (The annoying thing is I prefer the original quote...oh well).

General Ideas:

_Some people, they sleep twice. Once for those who are gone, and once for themselves. They dream thickly, dreaming double—waking from one dream into another one. They walk these dream streets, a mess of highways containing their hopes and desires, calling out names, lost in a cacophony of secrets. Searching for the one who can bring them home. -_This particular section was inspired by a poem called "Streets" by Naomi Shihab Nye. Along with her poem "Making a Fist", these poems inspired me greatly throughout this fic. I highly recommend you read the poems, as they can be found easily with a Google search or on Poem Hunter. I'm sure I spliced apart their meaning somewhat for my own means, but nevertheless they were important factors when I was writing and deserve acknowledgment.

And, of course, many thanks to those of you who have favorited, alerted, or reviewed this. I hope you have enjoyed the ride, and I appreciate your feedback.

Can't forget the links to the original LJ posts! This is a de-anon after all. Just take out the extra spaces. Keep in mind that this de-anon is much more thoroughly edited than what was originally posted on LJ.

Original prompt and first few parts: http :/ /hetalia-kink. livejournal. com /17337. html?thread=49936825#t49936825

Parts 3 through 8: http :/ /hetalia-kink. livejournal. com/17465. html?thread=56460089#t56460089

Parts 8 through the end: http :/ /hetalia-kink. livejournal. com/18772. html?thread=71362900#t71362900


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